


A Mirror Tinted Rose

by Truth



Category: The Sandman
Genre: Creepy, Death, Gen, gruesome, horrible
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-02-28
Updated: 2009-02-28
Packaged: 2017-10-14 06:48:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/146537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Truth/pseuds/Truth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In modern middle-America, black is the color of fear.  The faint shadows moving against the angle of the light, that possibly not-quite-empty space under the bed, the encroaching line of darkness as the sun disappears beneath the horizon - blackness means concealment, and people fear the unknown.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Mirror Tinted Rose

**Author's Note:**

> For [](http://community.livejournal.com/sickficfest/profile)[**sickficfest**](http://community.livejournal.com/sickficfest/)

In modern middle-America, black is the color of fear. The faint shadows moving against the angle of the light, that possibly not-quite-empty space under the bed, the encroaching line of darkness as the sun disappears beneath the horizon - blackness means concealment, and people fear the unknown.

The Corinthian embodies nightmare, white and gleaming from the tousled hair above a pale face to the bright gleam of his smile. White is the color of terror and mourning in cultures far older than that imperfectly echoed by the modern media for mass consumption, and the Corinthian is older still. A dark mirror of the human soul, the Corinthian was made to reflect those things within that should never see the light of day - to expose mercilessly those things normally kept hidden in the comforting dark.

The dark glasses are a thoroughly modern touch, a mocking echo of his function and a bit of camouflage meant more to tease than to conceal the horror of what lies beneath - a blackness almost reassuring when compared to the gleaming white beneath. Comforting black destroyed by merciless white and followed again by a darkness of the mind, one that would never again afford that same, protective shroud.

White was the color of Amanda Finch's nightmares. Long ago padded walls had faded to the yellow of nicotine stains and they pressed in against her as she screamed for rescue until she could scream no more. No one came, and why would they? Even the lightbulb so high above her head and enclosed in a rusted cage, only flickered erratically, out of reach and impervious to her pleas for darkness and for relief.

There was always light, light by which to see, and the only thing to see was herself. She could not close her eyes, she could not hide, and in the flickering _absence_ of shadow that crawled against the stained walls, she saw herself, always herself. That was when the screaming began.

When she rose in the morning, having found no relief in dreams, she would go about her daily routine with her usual gentle, affectionate smile. Amanda would greet her neighbors, smile at the paper boy, and head to work with her coffee already close at hand. Despite the return to normalcy and the end of the nightmare, somewhere inside she could still hear her own screams and with each day they grew louder and harder to ignore. Despite the sunglasses, the empty light sockets in every room and the drawn shades, there was always too much light - always nowhere to hide.

It took two weeks for her neighbors to convince the police to investigate the piling newspapers and mail and three further hours to fully explore her carefully darkened house. Every crack had been sealed, every curtain weighted and carefully sewn together. There were no light bulbs in any fixture and the carefully dissected corpse of a flashlight was laid out on the kitchen counter just beside a box full of shaved wax that might once have been candles and an empty box of matches.

They found her, eventually, curled up in the back of an upstairs closet with the door closely locked behind her. With her, they found four large boxes, each tied with a pretty white bow….

There were five burials when the inquest was over and four tiny headstones, each bearing the name of a different father, each having never known he had a daughter or even the real name of the woman who had, at the last, called herself Amanda Finch.

There were flowers for the tragedy, of course, an ornate arrangement of lilies for each pathetically small grave had been donated by the horrified locals. Giant sprays and wreaths loomed over the row of grey stones and took away, somehow, from the honesty of the tragedy with their carefully artificial display. There were mourners too, strangers gathered to decry the senseless tragedy of the death of each infant, their tiny skeleton found wrapped in frothy lace….

The grave of their mother had a small, metal plaque, as demanded by law. There were no flowers and only a single visitor standing at the foot of her final resting place. _He_ knew the falsity of the romantic visions and weeping show at the far side of the enormous cemetery.

He'd seen the infants brought home by sweet Amanda through bright, laughing green eyes, watched as each new child was greeted with delight and with love. He'd watched as the garden of laughing children was tended with care and with passion by a mother who made them the very center of her life. Every evening, she would read to them, green eyes glancing from one precious baby to the next as she showed them the pictures and turned the pages of the beautiful picture books she had collected for them.

Those lovely eyes had been taken almost casually and turned back upon her. This time, the grisly reality was starkly plain and the shattering of Amanda's mind was almost audible; shards of rose glass crushed beneath the heel of a black boot. Reality unspooled before her like a carelessly dropped reel of film as she looked at herself and _smiled_.

Helpless, she'd seen the reality of rotting lace as decay made the delicate dresses into stained and fouled shrouds. She watched the tiny faces shrink and rot away as every day the lids of the boxes had been removed, heard her own soft lullabies sung to smiling, gurgling babies that -

Little wonder that she'd screamed herself hoarse, trying to deny the reality that smiled at her with sharply pointed teeth every time she closed her eyes.

They'd found her there, amidst the horrific remains of the children she'd loved so much, her lovely green eyes clasped loosely in one bloodied hand and the closet carefully locked and wedged closed from the inside.

The Corinthian is not evil, though he felt no pity as he stood looking down at a grave that even now bore a name tied to a fantasy of laughing children and not to the woman who lay somewhere beneath the earth upon which he stood. He had been remade, and to feel exultation or even satisfaction at her fate was no longer in him.

Relentless, pitiless, he is punishment, possessing neither mercy nor justice. The Corinthian is nightmare and his purpose is simple. Humanity requires a certain softening of the jagged edges of reality in order to keep from cutting themselves. He strips away that cushioning, crushed the pretty, rose--colored glasses concealing the ugly truth and leaving the unwary dreamer facing the monster that lives beneath their skin.

When next you peer into a mirror, consider for a brief moment, exactly who it is that stares at their reflection - and who it is that stares back.

The Corinthian is not evil.

He is _inevitable_.

However blameless you believe yourself to be, one night you will close your eyes - and he will open them for you.


End file.
